Nothing Else
by Laerkstrein
Summary: They're young, he tells himself. It's 1912, and they easily have their whole lives to live, perhaps even all the time in the world before anything, even everything, goes sour.


**Disclaimer: **I don't own _War Horse_, or any of the characters used in this fic. They all belong to their respective owners. I only own any of my original characters that I choose to include, as well as any of my own original plot ideas.

**Nothing Else**

**A/N: **Pre-_War Horse_.

* * *

She insists that she isn't laughing at him, at the obviously uncomfortable way he holds her, soft brown hair resting against his shoulder, for she is clearly a head shorter than himself. James smiles, mutters to himself that "the lady doth protest too much," and she laughs aloud, buries her face in the fabric of his jacket, tells him that he reads too much. He insists that there's no such thing, and that, even if there were, the world is full of too many brilliant books for him to stop now. Perhaps he's an addict, he teases.

James hadn't expected this, hadn't thought that taking her out for a quiet night on the town would end with the two of them in the middle of a dance floor, legs shaking as he felt increasingly awkward. He can't quite recall the last time he danced, though James suspects it's been quite some time, possibly back in the days where he'd take his sister by the hand and spin her atop the rug, laughing as their mother set about playing the piano. But Emma seems content with the motions, remarking only about the stray thread that's poked its way through the seam of his sleeve or saying that this is, by far, the best night they've had together. Regardless of the fact that, to all others in the room, he must appear horribly drunk.

He stops, takes Emma by the hand and leads her to the table where they've left their coats, helps her into hers and opens the door, ushering her out into the gentle nip of the summer breeze. They walk a ways and he still holds to her, says nothing even as she inquires as to where it is they're going. There's that butterfly feeling in his chest again, as though he'll rise right off the ground and hover through the air, perhaps to never again touch the earth. It always comes about when he thinks on this, plays it all out in his head and imagines that it all goes well. But, with every hope comes a fear, and James has buttoned his lip time and again, refused to talk on it, afraid of what her answer will be.

Emma pulls and his eyes go wide, and she stares up at him with a sort of defiance, a disappointment and worry.

"You've been acting strange all night," she says, and sighs. "What's wrong?"

James looks away, but she turns his head right back again.

They're young, he tells himself. It's 1912, and they easily have their whole lives to live, perhaps even all the time in the world before anything, even everything, goes sour. James bites the inside of his cheek and holds his brows high on his forehead, knowing full and well that Emma will not let this go. And, even if she does, it will only come up again the next time they see each other. And the time after that, and the time after that. So, he thinks, why bother hiding it?

He's taken her far, for they stand on the bridge that overlooks the river, the leaves rattling in the trees as though they've read his thoughts, seek to carry it on the wind and tell every living creature of his secret.

So that smile creeps onto his face again and they sit on the low wall, hands together as he laughs.

"You must think me silly," James says, tries to force the awkwardness of the situation away with his laughter. "I–I don't do much, Emma. If I'm not put right to work, I'll waste the day away in the sun with Shakespeare, or..." She stares at him, her smile now gone. He swallows. "But, all the same I-I'd like to know... how you feel about..."

It doesn't matter what he says, it all sounds incredibly foolish. What is he thinking, admitting to her that he cares more about reading than keeping busy, working, earning pay? What could be more important for a man who loves a woman so, than to maintain his stance as an upstanding and hardworking member of society, to ensure that, if he intends to marry her, he give her a home and dedication and love? He's all but admitted to caring more for stories than making a quality living. If Emma even knows what in the hell he's trying to say, why would she bother to accept?

James sees her hand move and half expects to be falling backwards into the river at any moment, to be left to crawl out onto the bank and return home a dripping and depressed mess because Emma can't stand the ridiculousness of it all. But she sighs, touches his cheek and leans into him.

"You're right," she says. "You are silly. But it's sweet."

He has no idea what to say to that, mind still reeling from the shock of his own stupidity, from the fact that she's still sitting here with him, hasn't decided to just up and walk away.

"Are you–?"

Words are unnecessary after this moment, the instant in which she moves her arms about his neck and kisses him the way she never has before. It's a sincere moment, one wherein everything is pure and there is no darkness in the world, not even in the dead of night as the shadows of the whistling trees move across the cobbled streets. There are only the two of them, content to never again let the other go.

If nothing else, she's accepted.

They make plans for early Autumn.


End file.
